


Too Grieved a Heart

by aurora_australis



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: 5 Times, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:20:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26856565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurora_australis/pseuds/aurora_australis
Summary: “If you’re brave enough to say goodbye, life will reward you with a new hello.” –Paulo CoelhoFive times Phryne or Jack don’t technically say goodbye, and one time they both do.Part of MFMM's 2020 Whumptober Fanfic Challenge.
Relationships: Jack Robinson/Rosie Sanderson, Margaret Fisher & Phryne Fisher, Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson
Comments: 20
Kudos: 91
Collections: MFMMwhumptober2020





	Too Grieved a Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arlome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arlome/gifts).



> From the prompt Where Did Everybody Go?/“Don’t Say Goodbye”. Title comes from Shakespeare’s _The Merchant of Venice_ : “I have too grieved a heart to take a tedious leave.”
> 
> Many thanks to Arlome for beta reading her own gift which she didn’t know at the time that it was. 😂

**\----------5----------**

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come down to the docks?”

Rosie asked the question into his shoulder; she’d had him locked in a tight embrace for a full minute now and showed no signs of stopping anytime soon. Not that Jack minded.

“No,” he answered into her hair as he tried to fully commit the scent of her perfume to memory. It was some combination of creamy rose and soft lilac and the aspiring detective in him wished he knew the exact ratio so he could recreate it far from home when he missed her. 

He closed his eyes and focused on the olfactory fractions so he wouldn’t focus on how very much he knew he'd miss her. “There will be so many people there and… and I’d rather farewell you here. Just the two of us. In our home.”

She nodded against his uniform jacket and after another long moment finally lifted her face to look at him. Her eyes were wet, but no tears had fallen as yet. 

“I wish…” She shook her head to dispel the notion and properly rephrase her thoughts; wishing was fanciful and Rosie was nothing if not pragmatic. “This is a very inconveniently timed war,” she said finally and Jack barked out a laugh at her assessment.

“It is,” he agreed. “We’re missing our six month anniversary.”

“We’re missing a lot,” she reminded him, then rolled her shoulders back. “But I _am_ proud of you.”

“I know,” he assured her. “And I have every intention of keeping it that way. Maybe earn a medal or two for valour while I’m there,” he added with a wink.

“Just come home,” she said, a plea and a demand, but a small smile — sad though it was — appeared on her lips. “The medals are optional.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he murmured leaning down to give her a long kiss goodbye. She returned it in kind, clinging to his shoulders as she gave a passionate farewell of her own. When they broke apart, Jack rested his forehead against hers.

“What are you thinking?” she asked; they’d only been married a short time but she already knew when his wheels were spinning.

“I was thinking you should plant lilacs while I’m gone,” he said. “It would be nice to come back to them in bloom.”

“You can plant them yourself when you get back,” she replied. “Another few months won’t matter.” She tipped her head back to meet his eye. “But don’t worry about the rest; I’ll take care of the house while you’re gone. And your garden.”

“The garden is yours,” he reminded her.

“The vegetables are mine,” she corrected, reminding him of the arrangement they’d teasingly agreed to while courting. “The flowers are yours. As am I,” she added so quietly he almost didn’t hear.

“Rosie…” Jack traced a hand over her cheekbone with his thumb and reluctantly looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. Time and tide... 

“I should go,” he said.

Rosie followed his gaze to the clock and her own eyes widened. “Wait!”

She jumped out of his arms suddenly and disappeared into the bedroom. A moment later she returned, her small hand clutching something tightly.

“I can’t believe I almost forgot. This is… that is… I got you something.”

She held out her hand and Jack did the same, receiving the small item in his palm.

It was a pocket watch.

He looked back up at his wife, who was, he was surprised to note, blushing.

“It’s supposed to be very sturdy,” she assured him. “The man at the shop said it was the most durable one they had. And I...” the blush intensified, “I left you something inside.”

Jack opened the watch to find a photograph of his wife. It wasn’t particularly risqué, just her smiling at the camera, except he recognized the dress she was wearing — gauzier and ever so slightly lower cut than most of her attire — as the one she’d worn the first night of their honeymoon, the one they’d accidentally ripped in their enthusiasm. And, judging by her now beet red cheeks, that had been rather the point.

“So you don’t forget me,” she teased quietly, a tear finally falling as she did.

Jack swallowed hard and pulled his wife close. He cupped her face in his hand and softly kissed her forehead. “I could be gone a hundred years and I would never forget you.”

“Six months,” she reminded him. “You promised.”

Jack gently swiped away the rogue tear with his thumb. “Nine at most. And then… then we can start filling this house properly.”

Rosie nodded. Without looking up at him, she took the watch back and closed the face. Then she placed it in one of the breast pockets of his uniform, the one meant for personal items. But before she buttoned it up again she paused, leaned forward and kissed him just above his heart. Then she closed the flap to seal it in.

“Come back to me, Mr Robinson.”

He kissed her eyes, her nose, her mouth.

“Just the same as I left, Mrs Robinson.”

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed and he walked out without another word.

He didn’t know it then, but that was the first time he ever lied to her.

**\----------4----------**

She was almost there — to the door, to a new life, to freedom — when a light clicked on behind her. Phryne, already feeling uncharacteristically guilty, turned around contritely.

"Mother," she greeted quietly, dropping her bag to the floor as she did. "You're up late."

Margaret raised a knowing eyebrow, crossed her arms, and took a few steps toward her daughter.

“You know, my darling, you’re never as subtle as you think you are.”

Phryne frowned at that but otherwise didn’t respond. She’d learned a lot from her father over the years, including how to get through an interrogation. And rule number one: never admit to anything they couldn’t prove.

Margaret unfolded her arms and pulled a train ticket out of her dressing gown pocket. A train ticket that Phryne, until that very moment, had been certain was in her own bag.

Damn.

Phryne sighed and closed her eyes.

She had been so close.

“I suppose you want me to go back to my room,” she said, slightly defeated, slightly defiant — this was, after all, only a minor setback. To Phryne’s surprise, Margaret shook her head.

“I’m not here to stop you, Phryne; god knows I’ve never had any success stopping you once you set your mind to something. I suppose I was just wondering why you felt the need to sneak out in the middle of the night instead of telling me.”

Phryne raised an eyebrow of her own before glancing meaningfully behind her mother and down the hall.

“Not your father,” Margaret scoffed, the very idea ridiculous to them both. “Me.”

Phryne sighed again. “I thought it would be easier this way.”

Margaret smiled, sadly. “For you maybe.” She looked down at the ticket, the destination — home to Britain’s largest recruitment center — telegraphing Phryne’s intentions as clearly as if she’d written her whole plan down. “But I know where you’re going, Phryne, and if something happens to you… if something happens I won’t have said goodbye to either of my daughters.”

Phryne gulped in a stuttering breath. She’d never thought… they never _talked_ about Janey anymore.

It was one of the reasons she hated it here so much.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and unlike most times she was forced to say it, she actually meant it. “I didn’t realize you… I didn’t realize.”

“No, I don’t suppose you would,” Margaret said softly, in a tone Phryne couldn’t quite read. Margaret looked away and fluttered her lashes a little, and Phryne thought she might be blinking back tears but she couldn’t be certain; her mother didn’t cry anymore.

Margaret closed her eyes fully for a moment, collecting herself, and when she opened them again and looked back they were clear. She took another step toward Phryne, pulling something from her other pocket as she did.

“Here,” she said, handing the ticket and a small packet to Phryne. She took both from her mother and, ever curious, looked inside the pouch. There was some cash — more than some, and Phryne didn’t relish her father’s outburst when he found out — as well as some stationary and a brand-new solid-ink fountain pen. Phryne looked up in surprise.

“What’s — ”

“I don’t expect you to keep in touch with us — your father and I, I mean. But don’t… don’t run away from all of it.” 

Margaret folded her arms again, tighter now, wrapping herself in the silk of her robe. “Write to your aunt or your uncle. Write Arthur or,” she wrinkled her nose slightly, “Guy. Write that headstrong young lady you used to run around with in Collingwood. Just… just write someone. Don't…” Margaret took a deep breath, wrapped her arms tighter. “Don’t make my mistakes, darling. Don’t run away from _her_.”

It was the closest Margaret had come to saying Janey’s name in years.

Phryne clasped the packet so tightly her nails dug into her palm.

“I won’t,” she whispered. She swallowed hard and bent down to shove the ticket and packet into her bag. Phryne smoothed out her skirt as she stood back up, fiddling with her fingers as she did, physically stopping herself from reaching for her mother — Margaret didn’t hug anymore either, having kept everyone literally and figuratively at arms length since Janey’s disappearance — though it had been years since Phryne had had the impulse to do so.

“You don’t... you don’t have to say goodbye,” Phryne told her instead. “I’ll be back.”

Margaret smiled that same sad smile. “Oh darling, you never were a liar. Don’t start now.”

Phryne couldn’t argue with that. “I’ll write then.” 

Margaret hummed noncommittally. “We’ll see. Just promise me you’ll be safe.”

“Not a liar, remember?” Phryne replied cheekily and Margaret choked out a noise halfway between a laugh and a sob.

”Touché,” she said. “No, I suppose I’ll just have to pray for you a little harder now. Goodbye, my love.” She took a great gulping breath and then… there they were, half a decade’s worth of tears finally making their appearance. Phryne was stunned.

Then her mother did something even more shocking; she pulled her daughter into a hug, tighter than Phryne could remember receiving from anyone since she was small. After a moment’s hesitation Phryne hugged her back, crying years’ worth of tears herself there in that cold entryway in a county she’d never really called home. Eventually, she pulled back and wiped her eyes on her sleeve, Margaret drying her own eyes with a handkerchief.

“I will though,” Phryne promised. “Try. To be careful.”

Margaret nodded. “It’s the best I can hope for I suppose.” She paused for a moment, looking beyond Phryne through the open door behind her. “I do understand why you’re running away, Phryne, just… just don’t keep running forever, alright?”

Phryne followed her mother’s gaze out into the night, saw the still slightly unfamiliar stars and all the unknowns she was about to run headfirst into. It felt exhilarating and terrifying and absolutely right. She was ready to say goodbye.

But when she turned around to do so, her mother was gone.

**\----------3----------**

At precisely half seven, Jack heard a knock on his front door. He wasn’t at all surprised. _Right on time as always_ , he thought, smoothing down his already immaculate hair and tie. He took a deep breath and opened it.

“Rosie,” he greeted politely. “Come in.”

She nodded her own hello and stepped through the door, a little awkwardly considering how many years she’d lived there. Though, he supposed, it had now been quite a few that she hadn’t.

“May I take your hat?” he asked, and she nodded again.

“Thank you,” she said, handing the gray and purple cloche to him. “For… all of this.”

“Of course,” he replied. “It’s, uh, right this way.”

He led her down the hall to the parlour and gestured to the file box he had repurposed from a particularly large book order.

“I think it’s all there,” he said. “Though you’re welcome to take a look around for anything I may have missed.”

Rosie nodded again, worrying her hands as she peered into the box. 

“You can…” Jack coughed and shoved his hands in his pockets, “you can go through it if you like. I can make tea, or…”

“Tea would be lovely,” Rosie told him gratefully. “Thank you.”

Jack nodded and headed into the kitchen. He tried not to think about what was happening in the parlour as he went through the motions of making tea, muscle memory directing his hands to make it just the way she liked. He put the two cups and some biscuits on a tray and brought them back out to the parlour, expecting Rosie to be done with her task. Instead, she was sitting on the floor, a book in one hand, a small photograph in another.

She looked up, startled, as he put the tea things on the table beside her and he was stunned to see tears in her eyes.

“Rosie?” he questioned softly, not knowing what to make of the scene he had just returned to.

“It all fits in a box,” she replied.

“What does?” he asked.

“Our life.”

That was, not strictly speaking, true. When Rosie had left — really left, the last time — she had taken most of her things with her, and had, over the two and a half years since, retrieved almost all of the rest. What remained, what was now in the box Jack had assembled, were all of her belongings that had become so much a part of the house that taking them had felt like an act of vandalism. 

The small vase she had purchased on their honeymoon because it perfectly suited the parlour walls.

The lamp she had kept on her side of the bed because it threw off the ideal amount of light for reading.

Their wedding photo, which, for years, had been the only one on the mantelpiece besides his graduation photo from the academy; Rosie had kept most of the space free for assumed photos of his promotions and their future children. He’d always seen it as a blank space trophy of his failings. He didn’t know how she saw it, as they never had words about it. They never had words about anything.

So much space.

A soft sniffle brought him back to the present.

Jack put his hand on her shoulder awkwardly and made a motion halfway between a pat and a rub. He had no idea how to comfort her now; if he did perhaps they wouldn’t be here.

Rosie, Queen of Decorum, attempted to calm herself.

“I’m so sorry, Jack, I don’t know what’s come over me.”

“It’s a lot to take in,” he offered, knowing that it was. Dividing a life. For him, the worst part had been the garden. Without Rosie there to tend them, the vegetables had all died. He still had his flowers, but the backyard felt so different now. Unsustaining. Still beautiful, but somewhat colder.

In the end, he’d never planted the lilacs.

“Are you planning to keep the house?” she asked, possibly interested, likely deflecting.

“I don’t know,” Jack said, a little embarrassed because he really hadn’t thought about not keeping it. “Probably. It’s close to the station and…”

“Of course.”

He cleared his throat. “I could leave, you know. If you want it. I know you said before — ”

“No.” The way she said it was so final, he knew she had other living arrangements lined up. He didn’t think it cowardly of him not to ask what they were. “But I’m glad you will.” 

Rosie put the book back in the box but stood and took the photograph over to the mantlepiece, placing it back in the spot it had sat so long there were small discolorations on the surface of the wood.

“You don’t need to keep it here, of course,” she assured him. “But I don’t want…. I don’t want to pretend it never happened. Do you?” she asked, as she briefly turned to look at him.

Jack shook his head.

“Good,” she said. She turned back to the photograph, and he could see the tension in every part of her. Without turning to face him she took a steadying breath. “Jack, I am so sorry — ”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he assured her without hesitation.

It wasn’t true of course. Oh there had been a time, not so long ago, that he would have laid the collapse of their marriage solely at his own two feet. But he was a little older these days, and, he hoped, a little wiser as well, and he knew now that she had contributed her own small part to their end. But he also found it easier to lie to her nowadays, at least when he believed doing so to be a kindness.

She nodded at the photograph, took one more moment to collect herself, and moved back to the box.

“I’m sure it’s all here,” she said, picking it up and walking back to the front door. She already had her hat on by the time Jack caught up to her.

She nodded at him, polite and pained, and put her hand on the front door.

“Wait,” he said. She turned around in surprise, setting the box on the small table.

“Jack?”

He reached into his overcoat pocket, all the way at the bottom, pulled something out and handed it to her. It was a pocket watch. A pocket watch that he always kept with him, a pocket watch that she’d given him so long ago. It had been years since her picture had been inside, of course, but it still kept the time.

“Jack,” she repeated on an astonished breath, examining the piece. “You kept it?”

“I don’t want to pretend it never happened either,” he said quietly, embarrassed but honest. “And besides,” he said, his voice moving to more familiar, wry territory, “it _is_ very sturdy.”

Rosie let out a very unladylike snort and Jack chuckled with her.

It had happened and for that he was glad. But it was over now, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t glad for that as well.

“I’ll see you at the courthouse then,” she said, handing it back to him. She moved once more to leave, but stopped herself, turning back to him and rising on her toes to give him a kiss on the cheek.

“Goodnight, Jack,” she said as she picked up the box once more and disappeared into the night.

Jack watched her make her way to the car outside, then turned back into the house. He picked up the tea things, now cold, and made his way to the kitchen. As he rinsed out the cups, he looked out the window at the garden.

So much space.

And he’d always wanted a peach tree back there.

Perhaps it was finally time to plant one.

**\----------2----------**

“Hello, darling.”

The words were whispered, and, as she said them, Phryne removed her glasses and squinted against the bright summer sunlight before taking a seat on the grass.

She stared for a moment at the grave, letting her eyes adjust, letting her heart adjust.

“I’m sorry,” she began, because how else would she ever begin with Janey, “that it’s taken me so long to say hello. But there were so many people at the burial, and… well you know. And then I…” Phryne trailed off and fiddled with a blade of grass.

“The truth,” she began, because that was what she always owed Janey, “the truth is that I wasn’t sure whether this hello would also be a goodbye. I’ve been thinking of… well I only came back to Melbourne for you, you know, and now that we’ve found you, and Foyle will hang, I was wondering if, maybe, it was time to up stakes again.”

The newly placed grave did not comment and so Phryne changed the subject.

“I do hope you like the view though,” she said, scanning her surroundings. “Aunt Prudence organised for you to be buried in the family plot, though — and I am sorry for this, my darling — that does mean you’ll be spending eternity with her.” Phryne chuckled, as she knew her sister would have also done. “No, that’s cruel, I know how much she loved you. And she’s… different now. Kinder. Still a battle axe, don’t be mistaken, but I think so long with Arthur has helped give her perspective. And she’s been so helpful with Jane… You remember, Jane, yes? Of course you do. Oh, she’s been so brave about all this, really. And clever. Do you know she and Jack used a _mummy_ to — well I told you all about it.”

Phryne reached for her purse, pulling out a letter and placing it on the ground in front of her. 

“It’s all in there, of course, along with a few new observations about Jack I probably shouldn’t be sharing with my little sister,” Phryne said with a small, cheeky smile. She ran a hand over the crisp envelope, addressed as always with a single name, and the smile got a little wider and a lot cheekier. “I don’t want to spoil it for you, but the man looks delicious with a champagne coupe.” The smile traveled to her eyes as Phryne continued. 

“We had a small party for my…” She stopped suddenly, the subject of her birthday and what it had meant for her sister still too raw. “Well it was lovely. Mac actually got so drunk she tried to teach Hugh the tango. Of course, Mac doesn’t actually _know_ how to tango, but now they both think they do. And Jane was so happy, darling, positively beaming all night. I wish you could have seen it. I know I told you the name was purely coincidental, but she has your smile just the same. And my spirit, heaven help us all.” Phryne rolled her eyes and laughed. “Honestly, it’s a good thing we have Dot to temper us.”

Phryne sighed as the smile dropped from her face. She pulled her hand back from the letter and fussed with the hem of her skirt instead. “I’ll miss them terribly, you know, if I decide to… well you know. Or you will, in a moment.”

Phryne released the material in her hand and grabbed her purse. Then she reached inside and pulled out her lighter, igniting the flame and bringing it down to the letter. The paper began to burn, as it always did, swift and efficient. Phryne watched, as she always did, as the letter turned to ash before her eyes. 

She’d been sending letters to her sister this way for more than a decade now and the ritual was as familiar to her as breathing.

The last of the paper burnt away and Phryne waited a moment before blowing it into the wind. She returned the lighter to her purse and prepared to stand, but, for some reason, she didn’t. Couldn’t perhaps. She sat there, quietly, for several minutes, before she addressed her sister once more. “You know, I was wondering… well I don’t suppose you have an opinion on whether or not I should stay?”

She stared at the grave, but it remained as silent as the expression indicated it would be.

Phryne shook her head at her own foolishness before forcing herself to stand. The wind had picked up, so she held her hat to her head as she did. With her free hand she put her sunglasses back on and smoothed down her clothes, turning away from the grave and preparing to walk back to her motorcar. Before she could go, though, a sudden gust caused the branches of a nearby tree to bend and moan and as Phryne turned to look, she was overcome with a memory she’d not thought of in over two decades.

She had been young, maybe eight or nine, attending the funeral of some great-great aunt she’d never met in a stiff black dress on loan from a neighbor that was at least two sizes too big. She’d been bored and uncomfortable and so she did what she always did: she ran. Janey had followed — despite her admonishments to slow down — because that was what Janey always did, and the two of them had ended up in that tree, their mother far below whisper-yelling at the two of them to get down _this minute_. She and Janey had just giggled and enjoyed the view.

The memory struck her so suddenly that Phryne momentarily stumbled, and to compensate she blindly reached back, the same way she’d done so many weeks before under a weeping willow, her hand catching the grave for balance. As her fingers hit the cool marble, she expected to feel empty, like she so often did when confronted with such a powerful memory of her sister, but this time she just felt… calm.

She steadied herself and turned back to the grave, kneeling back down but not removing her hand from the stone.

She had a thought then, a foolish, ridiculous, wonderful thought that maybe, just maybe, her sister was finally at peace.

God, she hoped so.

Another foolish thought followed the first then — if her sister had found peace, then maybe…. maybe she was allowed a little of that as well.

And perhaps, just this once, that started with not running.

Phryne laughed, despite herself.

“I thought you didn’t have an opinion,” she teased, dashing a tear from her cheek and smiling at her sister’s grave.

“You know, I quite like talking to you like this. I quite like a lot of things here if I’m being honest.” She smiled again, this time just to herself. “Perhaps I already know what to do.”

She stood there for a very long time after that, adjusting to this new feeling, before promising her sister she’d be back.

And in the morning, for the first time in years, she wrote to her mother.

**\----------1----------**

“So what kind of partners are we from here on in, Jack? What's our safe distance? Two steps behind, two steps in front? Perhaps a do-si-do?”

“I think we're more of a waltz, Miss Fisher.”

“Not a tango? A good waltz is slow, and close.”

“I'll try to stay in step, all the same.”

They toasted and Phryne watched him take a rather large sip of her rather good whisky; at least his second glass if she wasn’t mistaken (they had both been trying to keep pace with Mac). He smiled, awkwardly, and glanced surreptitiously at the half-full glass. She could practically see his internal debate as to whether or not he should simply chug the rest and leave, so she saved him from himself by taking a seat.

Jack, King of Manners, did the same.

He took another sip, smaller this time she was somewhat gratified to note, before looking over at her. “That was nice,” he said. “What, what you did for Miss Mason.”

“I’m glad you think so, Jack.”

He raised an eyebrow at her, not so sharply as he had earlier in the week, but still with an edge.

“Really? I didn't think you particularly cared what I thought. You generally engineer things quite well on your own.”

Phryne lowered her glass in surprise.

“Of course I care, Jack. How — ”

Oh. Of course. The stocking.

Well.

Phryne sighed; really she’d been foolish to think they didn’t need to talk about what had happened, even if they both seemed willing to move past it. “Alright, let’s do this.”

“Do what?” he asked, his slightly prickly expression morphing into plain confusion.

“Have it out,” she explained.

“Have it…?”

“Out. Regarding the Gertie Haynes case and… and everything around that.”

Jack shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Why, because it might make things awkward?” Phryne shot him a wry look and Jack snorted an inelegant laugh into his glass.

“Yes, alright, fair enough.” He relaxed a little into his seat. “Let’s… have it out.”

Phryne took a sip of her whisky and pursed her lips as she tried to find a way forward, but Jack beat her to it.

“Well for my part,” he began slowly, “I’ve been waiting for an apology, though I think at this point I could be waiting forever, so perhaps we should just call it water under the bridge and move on.”

Phryne’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “An apology?” Jack tilted his head knowingly and shrugged.

“You’re the one who wanted to ‘have it out’,” he reminded her.

Phryne narrowed her eyes. “I did. And just to be clear, you’d like me to apologize for…?”

“Your actions during that case. No more,” he said pointedly, and she released a small relieved breath at his assurance that he held her in no way accountable for whatever romantic feelings he might harbour, “but also no less.”

Phryne took another sip of her whisky.

“The actions that led to solving the case, you mean?”

“The actions around which somehow the case was still solved,” he corrected and she gripped her glass tighter in irritation.

“That feels like revisionist history, Inspector.” 

Jack rolled his eyes, the whisky clearly relaxing his movements.

“No, you’re just not used to someone telling you when you’re being an ass.”

And, apparently, his tongue.

For her part, Phryne’s jaw almost dropped at the accusation, the blunt nature of it so out of character for him, but evidently, Jack took “having it out” quite seriously. To his credit, he looked like he wished he could take the words back, but even more to his credit he didn’t, standing his ground even as he looked like he wished that same ground would swallow him whole.

“Well,” she began as she glared across the room at him, “as it happens I do have an apology for you — I’m sorry I expected better of my partner.”

His jaw tightened as he stared back at you. “And what was it that you feel I failed at, Miss Fisher? Because from my perspective, my actions had very little bearing on your investigation at all. You did the same thing you always do — exactly what you want.”

“Why are you still so angry?” she insisted, louder than she’d meant.

“Because we were supposed to be partners, and you went around me at every turn!”

“So that’s what this is about? I went too fast for you?” She winced internally as she said the words; she’d not meant to remind him about other elements of that case. But still she ploughed on, because this was too important. “So that bit about trying to stay in step, that was, what? Just a line?”

“No, but it’s hardly a choice either. I have to stay in step, you’re always leading.”

“Oh is that what this is about?” Phryne stood up so suddenly her whisky sloshed over the side of her glass. “You want to lead?” 

Jack stood too and took a step in her direction.

“I’d be happy if we just took turns.”

“We do!”

“But we didn’t! You obstructed my investigation, Miss Fisher, you… you obstructed me!”

“Ailsa wanted to say goodbye to her daughter, Jack, to explain what she’d done while she still had a chance.”

“And you didn’t trust that I would let her?”

“The Jack Robinson I know would have let her, but _that_ Jack Robinson seemed to be on a very ill-timed holiday! Instead, I had a very pale imitation who was dismissing my theories out of hand and undermining me in front of suspects and… and yelling at children during interrogations! I don’t know who _that man_ was but I didn’t, I _couldn’t_ , trust him!”

Jack recoiled at her words as though she’d slapped him. As though she’d injured him.

She supposed she had.

Phryne took a deep breath and continued on. “I acted in the best interest of the investigation and my friend. I didn’t excuse her actions, Jack, but I tried to show some compassion all the same. Why can’t you understand that?”

“I can, Miss Fisher. I just don’t know why you had to do it at the expense of what we’d built.”

“I didn’t! I — ”

“You did! Jesus, Phryne, why can’t you see that? You _lied_ to me! You lied to me and then you tampered with my vehicle and then you joked about it!” He almost choked on the word and it was Phryne’s turn to flinch but Jack didn’t seem to notice. “Is that what partners are to you? A convenience to be manipulated whenever it’s convenient? A joke? A —”

“Stop!” she shouted, taking a step towards him.

“Stop what?” he shouted right back.

“Stop being so bloody derisive about an… an association that’s come to mean a great deal to me!”

“Well it means a great deal to me too!”

“Well good!” she replied, still shouting at him. “So what’s the problem, Jack!?” And then, suddenly all the fight was out of her and she was just so very tired. “What’s the problem?” she repeated quietly.

Jack closed his eyes and shook his head. “I don’t know. Perhaps... perhaps we just have different definitions of the term.”

“So what do we do?” Phryne asked.

Jack shrugged; and for a brief, terrible second Phryne worried all the fight was out of him too. 

He looked at his glass then, and did what he’d contemplated doing ten minutes ago — he chugged the rest and moved toward the door.

"Jack, wait."

She called out the words before she’d realized she’d planned to, but — to her credit this time — she stood by them.

“What for?” he asked, though now when she met his eye she thought maybe she saw a little fight in there yet.

She could work with that.

“I don’t know,” she replied honestly. “I just know… I just know I don’t like this.”

“I don’t like this either, Miss Fisher.”

When she didn’t say anything else, he turned to leave again, but stopped in the parlour doorway, still facing away from her.

“I need to know I can trust you, Miss Fisher. And I need to know you trust me.”

“And I need you to have faith in me,” she said to his back.

Jack shoved his hands in his pockets and turned around, nodding as he did.

“So where does that leave us?” he asked.

“I think, I _hope_ , it means that we keep working together, and see if we can… repair the rest.”

He nodded again, thoughtfully this time, though with less confidence than she would have liked.

“And,” Phryne continued, “for what it’s worth, I _am_ sorry about the stocking.” 

The corner of Jack’s lip quirked up in a barely suppressed smile. “Yes, I imagine harming a motorcar in any way would be a cardinal sin for you.”

“Oh yes, I had to have a long talk with Dot’s priest about it.”

The smile, small and begrudging though it was, finally broke through. “And how did that go?”

“Not well,” she admitted with a slight, sly grin of her own. “Turns out our differentials were too great.”

Jack rolled his eyes at that, but the air felt a little clearer now for which Phryne was so very glad.

“You did just fine though,” she told him. “Diagnosing the issue, I mean. Made good time to the race in the end. Perhaps the next time I need a mechanic I’ll call you.”

The look of fond exasperation he gave her then (perhaps a little heavier on the exasperation than usual but that wasn’t surprising given the circumstances) was so very _Jack_ she almost laughed. She settled for widening her smile instead.

He gave her a small head shake in response, then nodded at her and moved out into the hall to get his hat and coat. She followed him as far as the parlour door, leaning against it as she watched him open the front door.

“So… did this help then? The ‘having it out’,” she clarified at his quizzical expression. “Can we be friends again?” she asked in oh such a different tone than she had all those weeks ago.

“Of course,” he said, though for all she could so often read him like a book, this time she couldn’t tell if he was just saying it as a kindness. “Good night, Miss Fisher.”

And then he was gone.

For how long...

Phryne watched her closed front door for another minute as she finished her drink, but no epiphanies came. So she returned their glasses to the drinks cart and headed up to bed.

Beatrice was right, people were confusing.

Two tumblers.... shifting… and falling and …

Sometimes you just fell.

**\----------+1----------**

The door to his office was thrown open with abandon, his only warning that Hurricane Phryne had arrived. 

“I’m here to tell you you’re wrong,” she began, hopping up on his desk and making herself at home. She cheerfully removed her gloves, clearly settling in though — and he was proud of himself for this — Jack didn't look up from the report he was reading as she did. Instead, he kept his eyes firmly glued to the paper in front of him.

“And good afternoon to you too, Miss Fisher,” he greeted placidly. “Wrong about what?”

“Your primary suspect in the Dalton murder, of course.”

“Of course,” he echoed, finally looking up from his work, a small tick at the corner of his mouth the only indication of the deep waters below his smooth surface. “I’m impressed, this might be a new record; you’ve managed to reject my lead suspect before I even named one.”

Phryne leveled a knowing look at him as she adjusted her black beret and smoothed down her hair. “Oh don’t be coy, Jack. Philandering husband, of _course_ the wife would be the first person you suspect. Except you’d be wrong, because Daphne Dalton didn’t do it.”

“No?”

“No. And I come bearing gifts.”

Jack perked up at that. “Lunch?” he asked, but Phryne just rolled her eyes.

“ _Proof_. I am in possession of certain correspondence which will make it very clear that Daphne had no motive for killing her husband. She was quite happy elsewhere and the marriage suited her fine as a social arrangement.”

“I see.” Jack thought back to where the now Widow Dalton had been when he tracked her down to break the news. Right, lunching with a Morris Chester and his sister at their home.

“Mr Chester?” he guessed.

“Close,” she conceded. “Miss Chester.”

“Ah.”

“So you can see how this might be delicate.”

“I can. Can I also see the letters?”

“You may.” Phryne pulled them out of her purse, but moved them just out of Jack’s reach as he raised his hand to take them. “I assured Daphne that you would be discreet and not make these public unless it was absolutely necessary.”

Jack nodded his consent to her term. “And I won’t.” Phryne smiled, pleased, and handed him the small stack, which he immediately locked in his desk drawer. “But, as it happens, Mrs Dalton was only my runner-up suspect anyway.”

“Oh?” Phryne appeared intrigued.

“Mmmm. The man cheated his wife _and_ his business partner, a Mr Walter Reynolds. And Mr Reynolds is known for his temper.”

“Is he?” Phryne asked in far too high a tone. Jack sighed.

“I see he’s your primary suspect as well.”

Phryne shrugged. “He, _might_ , be a person of interest.”

“Uh huh.” Jack leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his stomach. “And will you be taking a special interest in him this evening then?”

“I thought I might go down to his office and ask a few questions.”

“Yes, I can see you’re wearing your Ask a Few Questions Beret.”

Phryne stuck her tongue out at him and the small tick at the corner of his mouth returned.

“Do you need my help?” he asked.

“Not at this time,” she assured him. “I’m just going to — ”

Jack held up a hand to stop her. “Then I don’t want to know.” Then he flashed her a quick smile which somewhat undermined his stern tone, but he couldn't bring himself to care that much. “But thank you,” he told her softly.

“Well I know how you worry, Jack,” she reasoned, a barely suppressed smile on her own face.

“I’m not worried, I just… like to know where you are.” He raised an eyebrow and smirked. “I believe that's a term I've heard used.” Phryne glared at the comparison and Jack rolled his lips to keep from outright laughing.

Phryne crossed her arms and leapt off his desk, but Jack caught her arm before she could leave his side. He tilted his head and reached into one of his drawers with his free hand, extracting a small paper bag and handing it to her.

“A peace offering,” he explained and was rewarded by a delighted grin on his lover’s face.

“Oh they’re _beautiful_ ,” she said, reaching in and pulling out one of the peaches to inspect it.

“First of the season,” he told her. “Enjoy.”

“I will,” she said confidently. Glancing at the door to make sure no one was nearby, she leaned down to give him a quick kiss. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.” As Phryne put her gloves back on, Jack reached down and picked up the report he’d been reading. “Will I see you tonight?” he asked. 

“I should be back in plenty of time for a nightcap,” she assured him. “And if I’m not…”

“I will come help you ask a few questions,” he finished, eyes back on the report.

“Perfect. And if you get bored waiting for me, I just got a new book on safecracking you should feel free to peruse. It’s in the bottom drawer of my vanity, under my lockpicks.” Phryne leaned down to whisper in his ear. “And your handcuffs.”

“Goodbye, Miss Fisher,” he said loudly, his tone as reprimanding as his expression was fond.

“Goodbye, Jack!” she trilled, winking as she closed the door behind her.

Jack just shook his head as she left, successfully biting back a wicked smile until she was well and truly away, his ardor no less intense for her absence. Because, really, there was no safe distance from Phryne Fisher. 

And thank goodness for that.

**Author's Note:**

> So it’s once again October, which means it’s once again Whumptober! What is Whumptober, you ask? Well it’s best explained in [this comprehensive Tumblr post](https://whopooh.tumblr.com/post/628820196982964224/it-is-time-again-for-miss-fishers-whumptober) (where you can still sign up btw), but the short answer is that it’s a month of whump, a fandom term meaning to lay abuse on a character in a story, but with a happy or comforting ending.
> 
> So why would we want that right now, in this the Year of Whump?
> 
> Well I can only speak for myself, but for me, yes, the world IS full of whump, but, just for today, here’s a place I can find a happy or comforting ending. YMMV on whether or not a story on the Internet helps brighten your day, but in any case I wish everyone so much less real world whump in the coming months. ❤️


End file.
